In the dark, I could see her start to undress, pulling her child’s T-shirt up. Then we both turned away. As ever, it seemed weirdly instinctive for us to avoid anything else. I quickly stripped to my shorts and crawled into bed.

A wave of fatigue hit me as soon as I lay down. I barely felt Dena rock the mattress as she joined me.

“Good night,” she said.

I smelled Dena’s newly washed nightgown. I thought instead of Marthe’s leotard, of Katie’s freckles. Then I thought of trivia.

“Anne Bancroft replaced Patricia Neal in John Ford’s Seven Women,” I said.

Dena didn’t hear me. She was faced away, talking, too, but in a dream.

“Lost,” she was saying. “Help me. I’m lost.”

Wasn’t it wrong to be displeased by a woman so displeased by herself? I reached over and wrapped an arm around her. Immediately, Dena held on. In a moment, she was quiet, and so was I. The only sound was a seal in the water outside.

At that moment, the world seemed uninhabited, except for a trivial man and a woman without a subject—or, more precisely, with a subject that had brought her only unhappiness.

The next morning, I called my machine in New York. I was shocked to hear Katie’s voice.

“Roy,” she said, breathlessly. “Get in touch with Leonard Friend in Philadelphia. Ask him about Chapter Fourteen. And tell him that I love him.”

Suddenly, on the tape, in the background, I heard a door open. I heard Johnny’s voice. Then, without another word, she hung up.

I SHOULD HAVE LET IT GO.

I mean, I no longer had a financial backer, except for an unwitting Johnny. I had family responsibilities and a newsletter to put out. But the trail that seemed to end had opened up again. And, at long last, it might lead me to The Day the Clown Cried.

Besides, I owed it to Dena.

“I took all that lobster meat out and put it in a sandwich,” she said, handing me a paper bag the next morning. “There’s one piece of cornbread left. The fries I had to chuck.”

I didn’t know what to say. I had a sense that we sort of loved each other, but in an incredibly muddled way. Why, given my life, should that have been a surprise?

“Thanks.” It seemed an inadequate expression. I followed it up with a big hug, which Dena returned and took time to relinquish.

Finally releasing me, she said, “Be careful.”

“Where will I be able to reach you?”

“I’ll let you know. Check your machine or e-mail. Wherever there’s someone unemployed, there I’ll be.”

I looked at her a second. It was an allusion to Henry Fonda’s big speech in John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath: a joke and a movie reference, two firsts for Dena.

“John Ford was replaced as director on Mr. Roberts by Mervyn Leroy, though both got billing,” I said. “Joshua Logan did some reshoots, too. He had directed the play.”

While I was talking, Dena had been busy refolding the lunch bag in my hand. Only when I was finished did she meet my eyes again. I guess you can’t have everything.

“See you, Roy.”

“Right. See you.”

—

My only contacts in Philadelphia were Claude and Alice Kripp. They were trivial people who had managed an impossible feat: They had gotten married to each other and procreated. I had bonded with their son, Orson—now seven, named after Welles—during my search for Ambersons. Today, I needed more of what they knew. In particular, who was Leonard Friend?

In their mid-forties, Claude and Alice had recently had a second, last-chance child, Ida, named after Lupino. Alice had retired from her job teaching film at Wellesley; Claude had taken a new post at the University of Pennsylvania. His campus office was filled with family photos, pipe smoke, and the warmth of domestic happiness.

As usual, Claude wished me to have some of it.

“I hope you’ll have a home-cooked meal with us tonight,” he said. “I know Orson would love to see you.”

“That’s nice. But I have to get back.” I wasn’t staying over; I’d stashed my stuff at the train station. Johnny’s cash was fast disappearing.

“I’m so sorry about what happened with Jeanine,” he said, referring to my Ambersons debacle. “There seemed to be a future for you two.”

“Apparently not,” I said, evasively.

“Yes, well, you know what they say about women and buses. Don’t run after one, there’ll always be another one right behind.” Claude refilled his pipe, chuckling.

I never stopped marveling at Claude’s unique combination of folksy normalcy and trivial knowledge. Most people could only manage one or the other. Like me, for example.

So, as usual, no matter how much I liked their kid, Claude’s ode to sweet domesticity fell on deaf ears.

“Look, how can I reach Leonard Friend?” I said.

Claude stopped, surprised, mid-chuckle. Then he looked straight at me. “Leonard Friend? Why do you want to reach him?”

This was always the dangerous moment: How much should I share with other trivial people? I decided to skirt the central issue and dissemble. After all, if Katie “loved” this Leonard guy, how bad could he be? Then I thought of Johnny and Graus and felt unsure.

“I’ve been, you know, referred to him.”

“You have?” Claude seemed revolted. “Well, far be it from me to judge, Roy, but … you have?”

Claude’s reaction caused me to back off a bit. “Well, you know, not … referred, exactly … it’s just a job thing.”

“You’re going to work for Leonard Friend?”

“All right, look—” What was the guy, a corrupt CEO or something? “It’s not a job, exactly, it’s … just research, I—”

“Look, I really shouldn’t judge, but why would you want to research FamilyFlicks?”

I caught my breath. FamilyFlicks. It was a new group of self-appointed censors who cut nudity, violence, and foul language from current movies and then sold them on video. Studios and directors were trying to outlaw the practice, but until the lawsuits were settled, the organization continued its not-so-dirty work. Leonard Friend apparently was on their payroll.

“Well …” I was trying to think fast. “To be honest, I want to go undercover, do an exposé of them for my newsletter. But let’s keep that between ourselves, okay?”

This did more than satisfy Claude. “Good for you! Now my world makes sense again. Okay, well, I think”—he was scrambling in a local phone book—“Yes—their office is on Walnut, off Spruce.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I started to rise, happy to be off the hook.